


A Different Sort of Hunger

by poselikeateam



Series: Higher Vampire Jaskier AUs [20]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Bloodplay, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Boundaries, Character Turned Into Vampire, Established Relationship, Explicit Consent, Fluff and Smut, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Fangs, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has a Praise Kink, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Geraskier Kink Bingo (The Witcher), Higher Vampire Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Knifeplay, Light Bondage, M/M, Oblivious Jaskier | Dandelion, Possessive Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Possessive Jaskier | Dandelion, Possessive Sex, Rope Bondage, Safe Sane and Consensual, Top Jaskier | Dandelion, Trans Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Vampire Bites, Vampire Jaskier | Dandelion, Vampire Sex, Witchers Have Feelings (The Witcher), Worried Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:13:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27250105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poselikeateam/pseuds/poselikeateam
Summary: When Jaskier's turned into a vampire, it admittedly takes a while for either he or Geralt to notice. When he's too afraid to take care of his needs, the witcher offers a solution that works for both of them. Sex has, after all, always been the best way to motivate him.[For the Geraskier Kink Bingo 2020, card E, "bloodplay"]
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Higher Vampire Jaskier AUs [20]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1754371
Comments: 17
Kudos: 367
Collections: Geraskier Kink Bingo





	A Different Sort of Hunger

Geralt always thought that higher vampires were born, not made. It's what he'd been taught, what every witcher has always known, and he had no reason to suspect any different. Of course, he should probably know better by now, at least when Jaskier is involved.

The fact of the matter is, witchers barely know anything about higher vampires. They're rarely contracted to hunt them, and even then they rarely accept those contracts. Higher vampires blend in seamlessly with humans, not setting off his medallion, not looking any different than those around them until they choose to. They hardly ever even smell of blood, the way other vampires tend to, because higher vampires don't _need_ to feed. Blood, for them, is a luxury, not a requirement. It’s the one fact about higher vampires that everyone knows.

And again, it is not entirely true.

There are a lot of things that Geralt _thought_ he knew about higher vampires. He thought they were born, not made. He thought they didn't need to feed. He thought they were, at the very least, _aware_ of their nature in all cases. And, thanks to Jaskier, he has learned that none of those things are strictly correct.

Because, somehow, Jaskier had been turned into a higher vampire. So that's the first myth busted, so to speak. While they are _normally_ born, and being turned from human to higher vampire is exceedingly _rare_ (due in no small part, he's sure, to the rarity of higher vampires themselves; he doesn't want to think of the high mortality rate, of how _lucky_ his bard is to be alive — or, at least, something close to it), it _can_ happen. Very rarely, it does. It's about one in a million, probably, which says a lot because he's very sure there aren't anywhere _near_ a million higher vampires out there. 

In true Jaskier fashion, the bard had somehow lived for months without realising that he was no longer human. His hearing had been enhanced, but he assumed that he was imagining it, or perhaps his ears had popped in his sleep and he'd actually been half-deaf his whole life up to that point. Lights were brighter, and his head and body were aching fiercely, but he attributed it to a hangover, a reminder of the revelry he'd been part of the night before. He awoke with blood on his collar, but assumed he'd gotten injured doing something stupid whilst drunk — perhaps he'd tried shaving, or gotten too close to a fight, and a lack of injury led him to believe that the dried blood couldn't be his own. There must have been a thousand and one clues and tells, teasing the truth of what had really happened to him, of his lost humanity, but he'd simply brushed them off until he couldn't any longer.

Thankfully, he had been in Geralt's presence at the time. The witcher doesn't really want to think about what could have happened if they had been apart, and he knows that Jaskier doesn't want to either. 

Geralt, afterwards, tries to make sense of things, tries to get a more or less accurate timeline of events from the newly-vampiric bard. It has not been easy; Jaskier, of course, has always been prone to rambling, thoughts branching off into tangents instead of sticking to one linear narrative. However, Geralt has gotten used to pruning those branches down. Each of them trying to get a story out of the other had been like pulling teeth at first, but had very quickly become something of an art form for the both of them. 

Apparently, Jaskier had been at some revel or another during the winter, while he and Geralt were apart. Though the witcher had wanted to ask his bard to come to Kaer Morhen with him for the season, the snows had come early, and he wasn't sure if a human could make the trip. Thus, they had once again parted ways, despite the newly-formed romantic relationship that they had finally entered into earlier that year. Jaskier had understood, had kissed him sweetly enough to make his chest ache, before sequestering himself in some court until the snows melted and they could travel together once again.

It was at this court, during a rather lavish celebration, that Jaskier had been approached by a strange man. 

Now, Jaskier knows a thing or two about strange men, being one (and being in love with one) himself. Despite what Geralt says, he knows the bard is actually very good at figuring out what kind of person someone is. He's not stupidly, recklessly trusting of everyone he meets, and it's rare that he actually engages with someone truly dangerous. Something about this man rubbed him wrong, and Jaskier has always trusted that feeling, so he remained polite but distant. When the man seemed to get the hint and back off, he was relieved, grateful. 

Unfortunately, the man had not backed off at all. 

This is where the story gets muddied, because Jaskier doesn't remember, and Geralt can only fill in so many blanks on his own. He is reasonably sure that the man (the vampire, he now knows) had drugged the bard, or convinced the serving maids to supply him with too much alcohol, or perhaps used some form of hypnotic power on him. However he'd managed it, he'd gotten Jaskier alone — perhaps pretending that he was a concerned friend or well-meaning stranger who wanted to make sure the bard got to bed safely — and had, quite obviously, made a meal of him.

The bard hadn't been missed, because the party was enormous, the hosts excessively rich, and so they'd hired a number of musicians. Jaskier had played his set relatively early, and was free to mingle and make merry as he wished, so no one batted an eye when he disappeared. He'd woken up in his room, and simply spent the rest of his winter as intended, ignoring all of the very obvious signs that something was terribly wrong.

All that's left after that is speculation, really. Why did the man turn him? Did he know that it was going to happen, or did he simply think he'd drain the bard dry and Jaskier — beautiful, headstrong, resilient Jaskier — had simply refused to die? Who _was_ the man? No one in the court could recall his name, nor could they recall much about him. The party had been so vast that everyone had simply assumed that he was an acquaintance of someone else. 

Whatever the reason, if there even is any, Jaskier is no longer human, and it's something they've got to deal with. And Geralt really, _really_ wishes that he had known sooner, but he didn't. When they'd first met up the following spring, he was so relieved to see the bard that he simply didn't see any differences. If Jaskier looked a little more pale, well, he _had_ just spent a whole season indoors. If he was a bit colder to the touch, Geralt could chalk it up to his own imagination, because Jaskier makes him feel so warm that he honestly could just associate him with a heat he doesn't actually possess. Over time, though, things changed. Jaskier had started to slow down, to complain that he was feeling unwell. He started getting dizzy spells, just a little at first, but it quickly worsened. His hands started to shake, he couldn't rest properly, his head was in constant pain, he was always hungry no matter what he ate and thirsty no matter what he drank. 

Geralt will admit that he had been increasingly worried as time passed and Jaskier only got worse. Before he could take Jaskier to a healer, though, something finally happened.

Geralt had gone on a hunt, and Jaskier, for once, had not asked to come along. He didn't feel well, and Geralt tamped down on the feeling of worry that it brought him. After all, a distracted witcher is a dead one, and he would be of no use to his lover as a corpse. 

When he returned to their camp, victorious but slightly bloodied, Jaskier looked immediately worse. He sucked in a shuddering gasp, and his heart sounded like it was about to beat its way out of his chest. He stared at Geralt with wide eyes that appeared to see something in the middle distance, rather than actually seeing Geralt himself. Before the witcher could say anything, the bard was on him, and it was a mix of Geralt's shock and Jaskier's surprising (and certainly newfound) strength that allowed the both of them to be knocked to the ground.

"You smell so good," Jaskier whispered, nosing at Geralt's pulse point. "Oh, Gods, you smell so _good_." 

And before Geralt could say anything to _that_ his bard was licking the blood from his cheek, tongue hot and wet, and the moan that ripped its way out of him made all of Geralt’s thoughts grind to a screeching halt. 

Jaskier’s tongue traced Geralt’s skin, thoroughly cleaning each cut and scrape, lapping up his blood like a kitten with fresh cream. The noises he made were downright indecent, and Geralt was growing increasingly desperate for that tongue to go somewhere else, somewhere a good bit lower. He didn’t know what the fuck had gotten into his bard, or why he was reacting so strongly to it, but his body was craving the musician’s touch. Oh, Gods, he _needed_ it. 

It wasn’t until he felt two very sharp somethings piercing his neck that the fog of lust cleared enough for things to start slotting into place. 

The first thing he thought was _how could I not know that Jaskier has been a vampire all this time?_ followed immediately by _why didn’t he tell me?_ Did Jaskier not trust him? No, that couldn’t be it, because if anything Jaskier had a habit of trusting Geralt _far too much_ from the very beginning. And he was the first, perhaps the only one to insist to anyone and everyone that Geralt is no monster, that he only kills when he has no other choice, whether he’s facing a human or something else. It’s one of the things Jaskier admires about him, apparently — _Geralt, darling,_ he’ll say, _how could anyone think you a monster, when you only raise your sword to protect?_

Jaskier knows — and had known then, too — that Geralt wouldn’t hurt him, and honestly, Geralt had thought, as a higher vampire he should know that Geralt more than likely _couldn’t_ , but what’s important is that he would never _try_. He’s hurt Jaskier before, he knows that, and he _owns_ that, but he’d sworn to be better and he’d damn well followed that promise. 

He was sure that Jaskier had his reasons for keeping this to himself. There was a lot that he didn’t know, admittedly, but what he _did_ know was that Jaskier needed this. At the very least, he was reasonably sure that he did. It didn’t seem like he was all there, at the moment, but even then he was being so gentle that it made something in Geralt’s chest ache, something he thought was long-dead before Jaskier came along. He had a lot of questions, but he decided that he could ask them when Jaskier was done, when he went back to normal. 

Only, when Jaskier did go back to normal, things weren’t that simple. Of course they weren’t. They never are, with either of them involved. 

No, this was the point where Geralt found out that Jaskier hadn’t been deliberately keeping _anything_ from him. Not only had he not been a vampire before this winter, he had no clue up to this point that he’d even become one. Worse, he was horrified by what he’d just done. It took what felt like years to calm him down, and that was before he even started explaining what just happened, what Jaskier has become. 

When the bard finally did calm down, he surprised Geralt yet again. He was not even remotely upset by his lost humanity. In fact, he was practically ecstatic. Neither of them had been looking forward to Jaskier aging and withering and dying in what, to Geralt, would feel like the blink of an eye. Now, they have all the time in the world; or, at the very least, as much as it’ll take for Geralt to get too slow. 

(Jaskier doesn’t like when he says things like that. He’s still under the impression that he can convince Geralt to _retire_ one day. Somehow, he almost makes it feel possible, and Geralt doesn’t know what to do with that, really.)

To be honest, Geralt didn’t know why Jaskier had lost control of himself like that. Perhaps the act of changing from human to vampire left his body weakened, starved for nutrients that could now only be properly provided through blood. While vampires can still eat food, it doesn’t really do anything for them. They don’t need it. And as far as Geralt knew, they don’t need blood, either.

Except, Jaskier does.

Because while he may be a higher vampire now, he wasn’t always. His body was human, once, and so he needs to maintain it in a way that his natural-born brethren do not. What is luxury for them is necessity for him.

And he refuses to do it.

That first time had been too much for him. Jaskier can handle any other part of being a vampire. He wakes up one morning with claws nearly as long as his forearm, and only panics for as long as it takes to learn how to put them away. _How could I play my lute with these?_ is his only concern. Nothing else about this transformation really throws him, but the loss of control he felt when he’d had Geralt’s blood is just more than he can handle. 

“It was... “ Jaskier swallows, shudders, his voice cracking. “It was awful, actually. I don’t quite know how to explain, but it was like being locked away in the back of my own mind, watching myself— watching myself _hurt you_.”

“You didn’t hurt me,” Geralt soothes. 

Jaskier shakes his head. “I could, though. I don’t— I don’t know what I’m capable of yet, not entirely. I don’t know how to, I don’t know, pull it back. Restrain myself. I’m sorry, I just don’t want to risk it. I can’t, Geralt.”

And that’s fine, at first, when Geralt thinks Jaskier doesn’t _need_ blood. He tries to patch his own wounds more, like he had before Jaskier had started caring for him, so the bard won’t be tempted to do something he doesn’t want to. After all, Geralt remembers (as much as he’s tried to forget) what it’s like, going from human to _Other_. Not knowing his own body anymore, having to re-learn how to _be_ , being afraid of what he could do; he knows what it’s like, and he wants to make it as easy on Jaskier as possible. One day, perhaps he’ll feel comfortable taking his pleasure from Geralt’s blood again, but it doesn’t have to be any time soon.

At least, that’s what he thinks, until Jaskier starts to get _worse_ again.

Part of Geralt wants to ignore and deny it, doesn’t want to push Jaskier, doesn’t want to make either of them confront this. Unfortunately, that’s not really feasible, not when Jaskier’s hands shake and his world spins and he curls in on himself and sobs quietly when he thinks Geralt is asleep. Not when he starts pulling away from Geralt more and more, as if any physical contact will make him snap again. Not when they’re both so fucking _miserable_.

They haven’t fucked in a while, either, which doesn’t help either of their moods. Luckily, it does give Geralt an idea. They can’t ignore this any longer, but maybe there’s a way he can make it okay, make it easier for Jaskier to come to terms with, even make it pleasurable for the both of them. 

“I want to try something,” he says quietly into the shell of Jaskier’s ear, voice a low rumble that he knows the bard can never resist. Judging by the shudder that it elicits, that’s one thing that has not changed. 

“Oh?” the bard asks, his own voice a low purr that sends molten heat shooting through the witcher.

“Thought I could tie you down, have my way with you…” he murmurs into the skin of Jaskier’s neck. He knows how much Jaskier loves when Geralt takes charge, takes the initiative to touch him, takes his pleasure from his bard’s body without hesitation. He’s pretty sure it strokes the bard’s ego, to know that all of his efforts in convincing Geralt that he’s allowed to want and have good things is paying off in some capacity. 

It works, just as he thought it would. The bard turns in Geralt’s arms to kiss him, for the first time in _weeks_ , and Geralt is almost embarrassed by how wet he is from just this small contact, how _hungry_ he is for Jaskier’s touch. 

“I like this idea,” Jaskier murmurs against his lips. 

Now comes the hard part. Geralt knows that he has to be _very_ tactful, that if he presents this wrong it’ll kill the mood. He has to be as delicate as possible.

“Gonna bleed myself for you,” he says.

Oops.

Okay, admittedly, that could have gone better. The bard’s eyes widen and the scent of panic quickly overtakes the lust that had previously surrounded him. He shoves the witcher, and with his still untamed vampiric strength, Geralt stumbles back. This only serves to make things worse, this reminder that he is suddenly _dangerous_. 

At least this is something the witcher can deal with, if only because he has a good amount of practise with calming Jaskier down. Once he learned how, it became second nature, like soothing Roach when she’s being skittish. 

“You’re hungry,” he murmurs when Jaskier is calmer, petting the back of the bard’s head while his face is buried in Geralt’s chest. “I know you don’t like it, Jaskier, but you need this.”

“I don’t _want_ to!”

“I know,” the witcher soothes. “I know you don’t, but you need it regardless. Let me help you. Let me _feed_ you.” 

Jaskier’s breath hitches, and Geralt is worried for a moment that he’s fucked it all up again, but Jaskier’s scent betrays his longing. 

“I’m scared,” he murmurs, and Geralt’s heart breaks for him. Jaskier will complain about anything under the sun and stars, but he’ll rarely admit when he’s afraid. 

“Let me help you,” he says again. 

There’s a long pause, and just when Geralt thinks he’s lost this one, the bard lets out a shaky sigh against his chest. “Okay.”

**

Geralt doesn’t know if the ropes he has will be able to bind Jaskier. They’re magically reinforced (thank you, Yennefer) but there is very little that can match the strength of a higher vampire, especially a frenzied one. Geralt also doesn’t know if Jaskier’s hunger will push him to the point of becoming feral, mindless, unable to focus on anything but the promise of his blood. There are, admittedly, a lot of things that could go wrong in this scenario. It’s just that Jaskier, damn him, is worth any risk.

Honestly, he’s only tying Jaskier up to make him feel better. It’s not as though he doesn’t trust the bard. Realistically, Jaskier is the only person he does trust like this. If there’s anyone in this world that wouldn’t hurt him, it’s Jaskier. 

The fact that Jaskier had been able to stop the last time, to only take enough to sate his hunger despite never having fed before, is honestly almost unbelievable. Geralt’s heard tales of higher vampires, long ago, that wiped out entire villages in one night. He thinks they’re probably exaggerated, since the human body holds a hell of a lot of blood, and the stomach only has so much space. Either that, or they were very, _very_ messy eaters. Regardless, Jaskier’s self-control is already remarkable. 

If only Jaskier would actually believe that.

He won’t, of course. He’s so worried about hurting Geralt that he refuses to take any chances. It always makes the witcher’s too-slow heart speed up ever so slightly when he does things like that, when he _cares_. It stopped being a surprise long ago, but it never stopped making him feel warm.

The point is that Jaskier has far more control than he believes, than Geralt even thought possible. If nothing else, the bindings will stay in place because Jaskier won’t allow himself to break them. If he does? Well, Geralt’s honestly not concerned. 

No, right now he has far more important things to focus on. Namely, the bard he has tied to a tree, sitting flushed and wanton and half-undressed, all for Geralt to do with as he pleases. He knows that there’s a reason for this, that there’s an _agenda_ , but… well, he is meant to make this _enjoyable_. If anything, he thinks Jaskier would be offended if Geralt didn’t take advantage. 

His lover is an absolute wreck, his lips bitten and bruised from their shared inability to keep their mouths apart. He has bites all over his torso — _Geralt’s_ bites — red and glistening, claiming Jaskier as _his_. Geralt’s own fangs are more bestial, wolflike, suited to tearing rather than puncturing; the both of them know that every time he pierced the other’s skin, it was deliberate. 

It had taken a while for him to be comfortable with his more animal instincts. His desire to claim, to show everyone that Jaskier is _his_ mate, to hold him close and growl at anyone who looks their way, it’s embarrassing. It’s unbecoming of a witcher, to be so attached, so _emotional_. The first time he’d thought of Jaskier as his mate, unbidden, he’d been so horrified that his normally pristine reflexes failed him, and he’d fallen flat on his ass. 

He’d been at Kaer Morhen for the winter, thinking of Jaskier, just barely comfortable with allowing himself to acknowledge that he _missed_ the bard. A possessive feeling had engulfed him, so strong it had made him almost dizzy, and all he could think about for a brief moment was how much he missed Jaskier’s scent, how _wrong_ it felt for _his mate_ to be so far from him, from his protection. Blindsided by that thought, he slipped on the stairs and landed hard on the stone. Fortunately, no one was around to see it. Unfortunately, he then had to deal with these _feelings_.

He’s lucky that Jaskier had been so patient with him, so willing to help him figure this shit out. Now, he barely spares it a thought. Jaskier is _his_ , and Geralt is determined to show him exactly what that means.

**

Jaskier shudders violently. Dear Gods, he half wonders if the real reason he needs more blood is less that he's a vampire and more that all the blood he _has_ is going _very_ rapidly south. 

It's rare that he goes this long without enjoying another's embrace, but... well, simply put, he's been scared — terrified, even — of losing control of himself again. He knows it sounds so dreadfully cliché, like something out of a pulp novel he might have read in his youth, but he's found out the hard way that that particular cliché exists for a reason. 

Geralt has been trying to convince him that it will be fine, that Jaskier didn't hurt him. And, to be fair, the latter is certainly true; if anything, his bite brought pleasure to his witcher, and that is something Jaskier will _never_ complain about. He likes when his lovers feel good, and he _especially_ likes when _Geralt_ feels good, in any way he can. Gods know the man deserves as much happiness and pleasure as he can scrape together. 

But while, yes, he didn't hurt Geralt _that time_ , there's still no guarantee that Jaskier won't hurt him the _next_ time, or the one after that. Frankly, he can't deal with the thought of bringing Geralt harm. 

Oh, but he hungers. It was almost better, before, when he didn't yet know what he needed, how it would _feel_. Jaskier could be — and often is — accused of hedonism. It's a fair assessment, honestly, but he doesn't think it's a _bad_ thing. Life is short, after all (or, well, it _was_ , before). What's the point in spending one's life punishing oneself for being alive? No, it's far better to live, to _experience_. 

Jaskier seeks out the things that make him feel good. He likes women, wine, and song. He likes soft silks and feather beds and copper tubs. He likes the undivided attention of a crowd, the weight of their coin in his pocket, the adoration of the masses. He likes scented oils and massages and fine clothing. 

The thing is, no man is ever one thing. Yes, he likes his finery, his indulgences, his luxuries, but he also likes the Path. He likes feeling the miles pass under his feet, the sense of accomplishment he feels when he sees a map and realises just how far his legs have taken him. He likes bathing in a nice, cool spring on a hot summer day. He likes putting his bedroll as close to the fire as he can without catching fire himself. He likes being able to be useful, to tend Geralt's wounds and wash his hair and sing him to sleep. He likes the way it feels when Geralt acknowledges something Jaskier's done, something _positive_ , like setting up the campsite while the witcher hunts for their dinner, or taking care of Roach while Geralt is on a hunt. 

The point is that he is not one to shy away from things that bring him pleasure. It’s just that he’s not keen on the lack of self-control he apparently has when blood is involved.

Nothing ever tasted as sweet as Geralt's blood on his tongue. Even Jaskier, master wordsmith that he is, finds it difficult to describe. He had simply never experienced something like this as a human. 

It's still strange, actually, to think of himself as _not human_. Honestly, he's been human his entire life, so he thinks he can be forgiven for having a bit of trouble getting used to this _very_ sudden change. Still, he likes to think he's taking it well. And why wouldn't he? He no longer has to age, slow down, _die_. His bones won't creak and his hair won't grey and his face won't wrinkle. All in all, he considers this a fantastic turn of events.

Except the blood-drinking. That, he could do without.

Part of the problem is just how much he enjoyed it, that first time. And he's not entirely sure, but he has his suspicions that Geralt's... _obvious enjoyment_ of the event made him taste all the better. 

He isn't sure what happened, exactly, except that he had been feeling so unwell and miserable, sure he was terribly ill but not wanting to admit what that might mean. He felt worse and worse until Geralt came back from his hunt, and... well, everything after that is sort of fuzzy, is the problem. 

Jaskier doesn't like that he doesn't _remember_. It's a lot like getting blackout drunk, he thinks, only he's now a dangerous monster that could do very serious harm to someone if he isn't careful. 

(Not that there's anything wrong with being a monster, by the way. He doesn't mean it in a self-deprecating way; it's just what he is, now. It's not something that bothers him. That said, he knows that Geralt would have a problem with it, so for once he keeps his mouth shut. He doesn't need his witcher getting all... weird about it.)

Like this, though? Tied down like this, he hopes that it will at least give Geralt the ability to stop him if he can’t stop himself. 

(Plus, it is _incredibly_ hot.)

Geralt begins by kneeling over Jaskier’s lap in a way that just _barely_ misses giving him enough friction to be anywhere near satisfying. Oh, Gods, the fucking _tease_. He’s already glistening wet, and Jaskier can feel the heat of him, so close to his own prick. He can feel the wetness, despite the layers of clothes between them. They’re both wearing breeches, though Geralt is also wearing a tunic.

Well, not for long. His next move is to slowly pull his tunic over his head, exposing his absolutely mouthwatering torso over the course of what feels like centuries at least. Jaskier’s already desperate, already whining in the back of his throat, already whimpering, _Please, Geralt, please_. 

Sadly, witchers are not known for their mercy. 

“You can wait,” Geralt rumbles, the barest quirk of his lips betraying his mirth. “We have centuries, now.”

And, well, on one hand that’s a lovely, breathtaking thought. Of course Jaskier has considered it, in the vaguest sense; he doesn’t have to grow old and die in what, to Geralt, might be the blink of an eye. He’s never liked to think about his own aging, so he simply hasn’t. Now, though? He doesn’t think about it because he doesn’t _have to_. There’s no reason. He won’t age. They really _do_ have centuries. And the fondness in Geralt’s tone when he says it? 

It is sublime.

That said, “Witcher, if you make me wait _centuries_ to taste you, I’ll—” He stops himself short, suddenly shaken. While, yes, he always wants to taste Geralt in a sexual sense, to delve into the heat of him with his tongue, suck his cock until his witcher is begging— while he always wants to taste Geralt like _that_ , he finds that this time, it might not be what he meant. 

He hasn’t forgotten the purpose of this, after all. This is to— to feed him, to sate his own terrible hunger with his beloved’s blood. The whole point of this wasn’t the sex, it was using the sex to make him pliant enough to feed. He feels… hollow, sort of, like a well that’s run dry. He _knows_ that the purpose of this was to feed him, but at the same time… it still frightens him.

How could it not? Already he’s losing the tenuous restraint he has over himself. It’s so hard, when he can hear the steady, heavy, _thud, **thud,**_ of Geralt’s slow heart, to keep himself in check. He wants, he _wants_ , his mouth _waters_ remembering that first, coppery taste— but that’s why he can’t. Even as his hands shake and his stomach rumbles and his throat burns, he _can’t_ indulge, not in this. It’s not a risk he’d even consider taking.

 _Geralt_ , though. He won’t accept that. That’s why they’re here, doing this. And objectively, he knows he’s _starving_ , but he just can’t bring himself to accept that as an excuse when he thinks about how eager he is. He’s simply too afraid.

“It’s okay,” Geralt rumbles against his jaw. The witcher’s right hand traces lazy, random patterns along Jaskier’s side, his chest, his shoulder— it’s soothing, damn him, and Jaskier’s sure that’s the whole point. “You can let go. I’ve got you.” 

And he wants to argue, but… well, he’s never had the best impulse control, has he? And there’s only so much self-denial he can take. He’s dizzy with— with want, and lust, and _hunger_ , and he whines, high in his throat, and Geralt _chuckles_ , deep and rich like expensive coffee. 

Geralt pulls back, and Jaskier whines again. “Patience, lark,” says the witcher. Jaskier’s fingers twitch, but he doesn’t pull against his bindings. If he’s being honest with himself (a new thing he’s been trying lately), he’s very interested in Geralt’s plans for the evening. He almost can’t wait to see just where this will go; but then, if he doesn’t wait, he’ll never get to see. 

Geralt’s torso is gorgeous, every inch of him unfairly sculpted, like a statue of a God. His scars, like his muscles, are a testament to his strength. They are proof that he’s survived, that he’s _sturdy_. It’s always been a comfort to Jaskier, because of his lover’s profession. Now, it’s a comfort because of _him_. He tries not to think about it. 

(He does a terrible job.)

There’s a flash of metal in the firelight, just a sliver, and the sound of a blade being slowly unsheathed. Jaskier watches as Geralt’s boot knife is brought from its sheath to his hand, sharp and deadly. Jaskier knows just how sharp the White Wolf keeps his blades, and it causes a spike of alarm to shoot through him, brief and muted as it may be. 

The witcher pauses, tilts his head, nostrils flaring. Scenting him.

"You know I hate to see you hurt," he murmurs before Geralt can get any terrible ideas. He knows how much it means to his witcher that Jaskier has never been afraid of him. (As if he could be, even as a human. Geralt has the biggest heart of anyone he's ever met.) 

Geralt only kisses him in response. It calms him. Again, that’s probably intentional.

Then, a veritable sensory explosion bursts behind his eyelids. Something— sweet Melitele, something smells so vivid and vibrant that he's almost choking with it. It makes him dizzy, for a moment, and his eyes fly open in time to watch the shallow cut on his love's chest knit back together. It's barely more than a papercut, but the droplet of blood that wells up and lingers even after it closes... oh, wow. Wow. 

He really has no better words.

_Him._

Geralt grins at him, sharp and unreserved, his fangs on display. It’s almost like… like he either wants to show Jaskier that he can let his own fangs out, or he sees in Jaskier a kindred spirit now. He’d always been reticent to show his fangs, though less so as their relationship progressed. Baring them, now, feels to Jaskier like something precious. He is _trusted_. He is safe. He is loved. 

He is with Geralt.

Geralt, whose knife continues tracing shallow cuts on his own skin, slowly painting himself the most enticing crimson. It dries and browns, and still Jaskier finds its colour beautiful, captivating. Each nick of the blade is more tantalising than the last, and he wants, he _needs_ — 

His witcher stops, sheathes his blade. His head tilts like, like he’s just seen something terribly interesting, like he’s cataloguing it, like he’s _planning_ something. It isn’t until Jaskier tries to clench his hands into fists that he realises what it is that’s changed. His claws.

Well, that’s a tad embarrassing.

The ropes had been tied with enough slack that, when Geralt gingerly takes his hand, he’s able to bring it easily into Jaskier’s field of vision. He can’t fully reach out, but he can see exactly what Geralt is doing. 

The witcher brings Jaskier’s hand to his mouth, kissing the palm. Jaskier keeps as still as the dead. He’s not even sure if he’s _breathing_. The world narrows down to Geralt, and Geralt alone.

His lips are on the bard’s palm first, leaving a wet, open-mouthed kiss in the dead centre. Slowly, he drags the flat of his tongue up the length of Jaskier’s pointer finger, never breaking eye contact. A punched-out, wounded noise escapes the bard when the witcher, not pausing for a moment, continues upwards. His lip catches and splits on Jaskier’s claw, and the scent of blood blooms like ink in water. 

For a moment, there is only red, and the feeling of the world tilting on its axis, a sudden and inexplicable vertigo. It lasts only a second before something _hotwetdecadentheady **perfect**_ explodes on his tongue. He moans, and Geralt moans underneath him, one hand threaded in the hair at the back of his head, keeping him in place. 

Jaskier snaps back to awareness very suddenly, like a lute string too tightly wound. He tries to pull back, but Geralt holds him close. “ _Please_ ,” the witcher gasps against his lips, and _Gods_ , he sounds even more wrecked than Jaskier feels. 

It takes every ounce of his willpower to force his claws to go back to regular fingernails, but it’s worth it. There’s no way he’s touching Geralt with _knife hands_ , but how could he possibly keep his hands to himself? Geralt is laid out before him like a feast, in more ways than one, and he wants to sample everything on the menu.

The tang of Geralt’s blood on his tongue is intoxicating, but the promise of _more_ is impossible to ignore.

First, he knows he has to sate his hunger. The longer he waits, the more likely it is that the choice is taken out of his hands. He cannot delay the inevitable any longer, and he finds that he really, _really_ doesn’t want to. And it’s pretty evident that Geralt doesn’t want him to, either. 

Pure instinct drives him to sink his teeth into the meat of Geralt’s shoulder, and the moment he breaks skin is fucking _transcendent_. It would be so easy to lose himself in the bliss of it, but he has plans, and it’s enough of a point of focus for him that he finds his control isn’t in any danger of slipping at all. 

The feeling of his witcher’s wet folds against his own fingers is almost as intoxicating as the blood on his tongue. With his other hand, he can press bruises into Geralt’s hip, hold his wrists to the ground, really learn the particulars of his new, inhuman strength. All the while, Geralt groans in his ear, writhes under his body, pleads for _more, more_ , and how could Jaskier possibly deny him? 

He fingers Geralt open and thumbs at his cock, pressing all the places inside his lover that he knows make his knees quake and his cunt clench around him. As he does, he takes deep, languid pulls of that delicious witcher blood, groaning low in his chest, grinding against his lover’s hip. 

It’s only when he’s drank his fill, when Geralt’s already come twice from his fingers alone, that Jaskier finally fucks him, hard and deep and _animalistic_ , but no less loving for it. No, Gods, Geralt is _his_ , all his, and he loves him so fucking much, but he _knows_ him. He knows that sometimes, what Geralt needs more than anything is to be _taken_ like this, fucked and filled and _claimed_ ; needs to feel the deep ache even in the morning, needs to know that Jaskier’s scent is still deep inside him when he wakes. 

“Mine,” Jaskier whispers, the only word he remembers right now. It’s enough to make Geralt come again, and he _tightens_ so deliciously that Jaskier’s following right on his heels, his own release crashing over him like a fallen tree. 

They hold one another close, their breaths calming, helping one another down from that intense high. The first thing Jaskier does is kiss his witcher again. 

As it turns out, Geralt was right. There really had been nothing to worry about. Honestly, Jaskier’s excited for his next meal.

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my first fill for the Geraskier Kink Bingo. I was torn between cards A and E, so I'll be fucking around with both of those. I'd been wanting to write this for _so long_ but a bunch of things kept cropping up and, tl;dr, it's finally done


End file.
